House Of Cards
by Amalialia
Summary: Finished! Post 3:10. Wilson found the Judas in him and betrayed House to Tritter. But it's all gone wrong. He wants to fix things, but how much of a sacrifice will he make to save House from jail? Implied WH, ambiguous consent TW. RR!
1. More Than Anything

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**Disclaimer:** Don't own House. Smeg. Any factual errors are accidental and apologised for in advance. Contains implied slashy House/Wilson, an evil Tritter (yeah, that's new) and ambiguous consent. 

**AN:** Set after ep 3:10, after everyone finds out that Wilson cut a deal with Tritter. Ignore the events of 3:11 – they never happened… Apologies about the TNR font if it appears that way - trust me, it's _not_ the font of choice.

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**I: More Than Anything**

The world seems bleaker at Christmas for the ones who end up alone, unsheltered by the safe bubble of warm fires, expensive poultry and demanding families. The protection of triviality, maybe – but protection nonetheless.

_This is all my fault._

Wilson sat in his car numbly, mindlessly watching the tiny snowflakes fall on his windscreen, slowly but surely building up an intricate pattern that would eventually shield the world beyond from his view.

_If only it could be as simple as that…_

What had he hoped to achieve by seeking Tritter? By promising to betray the one person in the world that he truly considered a friend? The questions kept running through his mind, as they had been even before he walked into his darkened office to meet the leering detective intent on sending them all to the depths of hell.

Incessant doubts demanding his consideration with every cold interruption by Dr Cameron as they searched for diagnoses, with every flicker of disgust that passed across Dr Foreman's face when he happened to lay eyes on Wilson, with the apologetic helplessness so visible in Dr Chase's eyes…

And worse of all, the weary disappointment in Dr Cuddy's face as she looked away again and again, unable to deny House anything and unable to forgive Wilson for doing so.

They all thought it was about him. _Wilson wants his car. Wilson wants his money. Wilson wants his fucking cancer patients._

He'd never felt so disconnected in his entire life. Even after all this time, after all the years he'd been at the hospital, always helping when he could, always forcing himself to see the good in everything and everyone, never anything less than he was expected to be…

And now they just assumed his friendship with House had been pushed too far, that this was it – _breaking point_ – and he'd thrown in the towel, ratted out House so he could try and piece the broken fragments of his life back together.

Well, news flash – his life been falling apart long before Tritter came on the scene.

He knew they could all see the changes. House had never been like this before, not ever. He'd been dependent on the Vicodin, taking it constantly for the pain.

But after the shooting, the operation, the so-called miraculous 'cure', its failure – House's dependency had escalated into something of dangerous psychological proportions. He was desperate, couldn't operate unless he had the pills, going through withdrawal in a matter of minutes after he was 'due' to have pills, hiding them everywhere, going to surprising extremes...

It _was_ a problem. House was sick. Why couldn't anyone see where this would inevitably head? Didn't they realise that a little girl's life could have been wrongly destroyed because of House's disoriented judgement? House wasn't just a danger to the patients, he was a danger to the people around him. To _himself_.

Finding him lying in his own vomit with that stolen Oxycodone prescription only reaffirmed everything Wilson believed. House needed help. It would be painful, yes, but the alternatives were far worse. He needed to make a change, or the addiction would grow and grow, consuming and eroding the brilliant mind that was House.

Making a deal with Tritter had been the only way to save Chase from taking the fall Tritter had been setting him up for, and in all honesty it was something that needed to be done. To _help_ House.

So why did he feel like such a dirty, traitorous bastard?

_Because Tritter's got all the cards and he bloody well knows it._

After finding House, and leaving him there, Wilson had returned to his car. He'd driven off towards home, but found he had to pull over when the angry tears burning from his eyes were blurring the road beyond focus. He'd steered the car to a jerky stop, let the stupid tears fall until he felt empty, and now was just staring into space trying to find a ray of hope in this disastrous situation.

_Because, after all, it _is _your fault._

His fault for making the wrong choice at a terrible time. His fault for not seeing House spiralling down into this distorted reality of junkie dependency. His fault for not protecting House – for not being the friend he was supposed to be.

But there had to be some way to make this all right. There _had_ to be a way to set things straight. If House was too stubborn to back down, then there had to be something that would fix things around his unabashed pride.

Tritter was the key – this was all about his extremist vendetta to try and get back at House for embarrassing him. If he'd just back down, if he'd let it go, then the interest in the case would rapidly dissipate.

_Because House means more to you than… than…_

Fingers trembling, Wilson clutched at his phone and shakily pushed the button to bring up his recently dialled numbers list. He selected one number, his heart beating fast in his chest. No matter what, he had to convince Tritter to leave House alone.

At any cost. His car, his money – possessions were meaningless now.

He pressed the call button.

It rang a couple of times, but then the cell at the other end picked up.

"Hello, Tritter here," said the rough voice, sounding completely alert even though it was nearly three in the morning.

_Does the man ever sleep?_

"Tritter," Wilson said, trying to keep his voice steady as an image of the unconscious House drifted through his mind. "It's Dr Wilson."

"I know who it is."

"I… House-"

"The deal is off," Tritter said shortly. "Your testimony, my friend, is not needed any longer. Hard evidence will speak miles on your behalf."

Wilson felt his stomach turn.

"There's… new evidence?"

"That's right, _doctor_," said Tritter, his voice mocking and scornful. "Both you and House will be going off to prison very soon."

"Tritter, please," Wilson said, hearing the desperation in his voice. He tried to sound reasonable. "There must be something that will stop you from persecuting Dr House. He's a good man, an incomparable doctor…"

"He's a bully, a sociopath and a blatant drug addict," Tritter said tersely, his voice cold.

"I can give you money-"

"Bribing a law officer is a further charge you want to add to your already impressive list of criminal offences, is it?"

"_Please_," Wilson pleaded into the cell phone. "Don't send House to jail. _Anything _you want."

The man on the other end of the line was silent.

The line crackled, the reception wavering with some coming snow storm.

"Detective-" Wilson started finally, but he was cut off.

"Okay, Dr Wilson," Tritter said at last, his voice level. "There may be a fare I am willing to accept… but are _you_ willing to pay it?"

"Yes," Wilson said immediately.

"Your loyalty to Dr House runs deep, doctor, very deep."

Wilson didn't reply, because he didn't know what to say.

"I think I am right," continued Tritter, "in guessing that such devotion goes somewhat beyond the mere level of friendship on your part. And yet I don't know if it's mutual, Dr Wilson. I don't know if he's even aware of how you feel about him."

"Don't," Wilson protested weakly. He didn't need to hear it from Tritter, of all people.

"I'll come to your hotel in one hour. Just you – no one else there or the deal's off. You agree to my proposition, and I'll go back to the rehab deal, forget the new evidence. House doesn't go to jail."

"Your proposition – what is it?" Wilson asked unsurely.

"You're a good man, Dr Wilson. You're young, good looking and successful. Some people would find that appealing."

Wilson's brow furrowed at the flattery. He was unsure of what to make of such a strange and sudden change in Tritter's icy disposition.

"And some people would, perhaps," Tritter continued softly, dangerously, "like to find out if the inside of you is as pure and selfless as the flawless outside."

Wilson breathed in sharply, suddenly understanding. He felt his cheeks grow hot, his throat dry.

"O-oh," he stammered quickly before he could think it through. "I get it. An hour, at my hotel room. I'll be there."

"Good," Tritter said measuredly. "A deal, then."

"Yes," Wilson whispered dully to the dial tone. "A deal."

The windscreen was completely white now.

* * *

The skies were cloudy above, heavy and dark with snow that promised to fall before the morning came. Well, good riddance. House hoped it fell forever. 

He sat on the park bench moodily, feeling the cold air seeping through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. Somehow, he couldn't seem to bring himself to care. What was waiting for him at home? A rapidly fermenting pile of pungent vomit in an empty apartment that still reeled from the violation of being searched by police.

That bastard Tritter.

It had been the hardest thing for him to do, hobbling into that seedy police office to admit a reluctant defeat. Did he want to go to rehab? No, not particularly. But this stupid feud wasn't worth his licence. Wilson had tried to make him see that, but it was only now that he understood.

He had a problem.

House didn't know when it had shifted from treatment of pain to an addiction pushing him to extremes he couldn't believe he had entertained. The increasing desperation of the past day had opened his eyes to just how much of an issue it was becoming. He didn't want it to be like this. He didn't want to be so dependent on Vicodin; it was destroying him.

He felt sick when he remembered the hurt, disappointed look on Wilson's face as he'd been lying on the shiny polished floor of his apartment. Wilson had stuck by him through a _lot_, putting up with an incredible amount of crap. But now he was walking away, and the childish, stubborn part of House was clinging to Wilson like a child holding onto a toy being worn away by years of possession.

No, that wasn't fair. It wasn't as simple as that. House didn't show his emotions much of the time at all, because he'd learnt the hard way of the advantages of a poker face. And when it came to Wilson, he was perhaps keeping up the best façade of all.

Despite the callous, carefree attitude with which he seemed to view their friendship, Wilson meant more to House than a lot of things and people in his life. He wasn't stupid – he knew exactly why he treated Wilson the way he did. It was a matter of self-preservation; Stacey had already left once, and House didn't know what he'd do if Wilson was the next one to walk away for good. By pretending not to care, it was easier to force himself to believe it.

But Wilson was so close to giving up on him now that the panic was beginning to grow unabashedly. That was why he'd forced himself to go crawling so pathetically back to Tritter. And now – now it didn't matter.

Where to from here? House didn't have any brilliant ideas. He didn't have any clue as to what he was going to do now. The situation wasn't anything like the things he usually puzzled over. It wasn't a sickness to diagnose.

It was just _humans_. Humans and their stupid, frivolous interactions.

He was at a loss.

The pain was still there, but the cold had dulled it down to a distant ache. In not feeling anything at all, being near frozen out in the snowy weather, it was stopping him from feeling pain.

_Is it better that way? Not to feel, in order not to feel pain?_

House sighed.

He wondered where Wilson was now.

* * *

Wilson tensed at the sound of the three slow knocks on his apartment door. He swallowed, and steadily got to his feet, heading to the door and unlocking it. He opened it, allowing the expectant Tritter to stride assuredly into his apartment. 

Wilson found himself staring into the wood grain of the door as he slowly closed it, dead-locking it with the chain. Finally, he turned and faced Tritter.

The detective was sitting in the same chair he'd been in the other day, when pressing Wilson for condemning information about House. He was looking at Wilson with an amused and calculating expression on his face, icy blue eyes narrowed.

Wilson hesitantly walked towards him, hands in his pockets, sitting down on the edge of his bed silently.

"Why are you so intent on making House pay?" he asked, staring at his grey-socked feet as if they might answer him. Tritter didn't answer right away, but he did remove his gun and badge, placing them deliberately onto the empty table.

"Dr House has abused his power for far too long," Tritter said softly, getting up from the chair and moving towards Wilson. "He has abused the people around him as well as his position as a doctor, and that needs to be addressed accordingly."

"He saves lives," Wilson said quietly, as Tritter sat down next to him. "He saves people that no one else can."

He tried not to flinch as Tritter traced one hand along his trembling leg, as slowly and consciously as everything the detective ever did. He allowed Tritter to loosen his tie, to pull it over his head, and just sat there obediently, trying to focus on House – the reason for everything he did nowadays.

He gritted his teeth when Tritter firmly grabbed his chin, turning his face towards him.

"No, Dr Wilson," he said in a dangerous tone. "You don't get to play the victim here…"

"I-"

"This," Tritter breathed, his face only centimetres from Wilson's, "is a trade you willingly made. Remember that."

"Why do you want to… with me…?" Wilson couldn't bring himself to say it directly, especially as he looked into Tritter's lined face. He suppressed the shudder as Tritter smiled.

"Because I _like_ you," he said mockingly, with a smirk.

They both knew it wasn't true. Wilson looked down, away from Tritter's piercing gaze.

"You'll let him take the rehab deal, then?" he mumbled, his cheeks flushing.

"Sure," Tritter said, his hand stroking Wilson's cheek. Wilson closed his eyes, trying now _not _to think of House, struggling to not bring thoughts of him to this dark place. In the end, though, this was all for him – everything was – because Wilson would willingly do anything to save House. Even if it had to be this.

He hoped one day House would understand that.

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**

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Endnote:** Well… reviews and comments are definitely welcome!!! Based on the response, I'll decide on whether to go on with the fic. I've got some ideas for a few more chapters, but not too drawn out! But I guess I'm okay at leaving this as a one shot. Let me know what you think! Thanks! \(+.+)/ 

_- Amalialia -_


	2. Early Christmas Morning

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**Disclaimer: **Don't own House. Smeg. Any factual errors are accidental and apologised for in advance. Contains implied slashy House/Wilson, an evil Tritter (yeah, that's new) and ambiguous consent. 

**AN:** Thanks for the reviews! Squelokle . Since the general consensus was in favour of continuing, here's the next chapter (and longer too!). Apologies, Scooby, for the lack of a complete T/W chap… maybe later $wink$

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**II: Early Christmas Morning**

God, people were cheery on Christmas Day.

House glared witheringly at the smiling elderly lady who sat waiting to be attended to. He couldn't hobble past fast enough.

_Damn cane_.

It was absolutely ridiculous that one day – one day out of all those blurring meaninglessly into a year – should make such a difference to people's outlooks on life in general. Didn't that stupid woman realise she was in the melanoma radiation therapy department?

_Oh no, she noticed me._

"Merry Christmas, doctor," she beamed his way, her shiny false teeth momentarily obscuring his vision.

"Uh… sure," he grunted, hastening his step although it sent a jolt of pain up his leg.

The path to Wilson's office had been so far strewn with naïve well-wishers and overtly cheery types, and he'd almost given up more than once. The audacious little brat who'd run up to hug his leg with chocolate-smeared hands – yeah, that had just about done it.

_Wait._

House paused, leaning against the wall, Wilson's office only around the corner from where he was. He tried to regain the mentality with which he'd set out here, but it had gotten jumbled amidst delusional pseudo-Christians.

_Oh yeah._

He remembered again – it felt like the hundredth time. Himself, lying in his vomit, dazed and somewhat baffled by Wilson's immediate concern when the other doctor had rushed in somewhere after midnight. His first Christmas well-wisher, as it were.

And he remembered all too well the shock and hurt on Wilson's face when he noticed the Oxycodone bottle. House wished his memory was foggier – maybe it would have distorted that expression a little more. Instead, this strange feeling somehow akin to guilt – not that he really had anything to be guilty for – had been nagging at him all night and all morning, exaggerating Wilson's reaction into something that could mean the end of their shaky friendship for good.

But what if it wasn't an exaggeration?

House chewed his lip, looking at the head of his cane. That was why he was here. To assess the damage, as it were. To find out if he'd pushed Wilson too far this time. And if he had…

Well, that could be dealt with later.

_What do I say to him?_

House frowned. Oh well, _that_ could be dealt with when he entered the office. With re-established determination, he strode – okay, shuffled – towards Wilson's office.

He rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the door bearing the plate _Dr. James Wilson_, a look of disbelief on his face.

_I come all this way and he's not even in yet?_

House glanced at his watch, and his frown deepened. It was nearly 11am. Surely the mousy oncologist hadn't skipped work just to avoid him? He should have known that would inflate House's ego way too much.

He feebly kicked at the door, only minimally satisfied with the soft thunk his shoe made against it.

"Idiot," he muttered, walking back to his office the _long_ way to avoid those horrible happy people.

He told himself it was _Wilson_ that was the idiot.

Wilson.

* * *

"Merr-" 

"Save it," House interrupted as he entered. Cameron's greeting fell short, and she pouted.

"Oh, come on," House said, sitting down in his favourite swivel chair.

"It's Christmas," she said defensively.

"So?"

Cameron rolled her eyes, as Foreman and Chase walked through the door holding folders.

"Hey House, merry-" Chase stopped when he saw the deadly look in House's blue-grey eyes, and half-held his hands up in surrender – as much as he could whilst carrying medical files.

"You're such a Scrooge, House," Cameron grumbled. "For one day, couldn't you just-"

Foreman laughed, and House looked at him with a mock-affronted expression.

"What, you have no faith in the goodwill of mankind?" he said.

"Yeah, sure," Foreman said, grinning. "Just not you."

"Anyway," House changed the subject. "Any interesting cases? I'd like a Christmas-themed disease, if you please. Mystery illness from Aunt Bettie's cooking, worsening rashes seemingly contracted from mistletoe, the case of the dying Santa Claus … what've you got?"

"Nothing quite as extravagant as that," Chase said warily, shifting through the folders. "It's been a quiet morning, nothing way out there."

"Oh, _no_," House said, turning to look at them all. "Well, I guess we could always let Chase practice his misdiagnoses then, that's always fun to watch."

Chase glared at him.

The door opened again, and Cuddy looked in expectantly.

"About time," House said impatiently. "I beeper-ed you at _least_ five minutes ago."

"Merry Christmas to you too, House," Cuddy said dryly. Cameron's mouth opened indignantly.

"Hey, you let her say it!" she protested, crossing her arms.

"Yeah," Chase agreed.

"Now children," House said, in the most patient voice he could muster. "It's a _whole_ different matter when it's said _sarcastically_."

Actually, his patient-voice probably needed a bit of work. But that wasn't really important at the moment.

"Wilson called in sick," Cuddy said shortly, answering the question he was about to voice. "He's not coming in today."

House blinked, holding out his palm as she dropped a small bottle of Vicodin in it.

"What could he _possibly_ have better to do than clinic duty on Christmas morning?" he said, feigning a horrified expression as he popped a few pills immediately into his mouth.

"No," Cuddy said, not even rising to the provocation. "He really sounded terrible. Anyway, get started on those cases or you can take his place in the clinic."

"But if I'm a good boy…"

"Good-_bye_ House." She walked out the door, letting it shut softly behind her.

House stuck his tongue out at her retreating back, still completely intent on keeping up the obnoxious behaviour to counter all that redundant Christmas 'Cheer'.

But…

Wilson calling in sick, well, that didn't really sit right with him. The smarmy dork had been perfectly fine when he walked in last night – fine enough to frown down at him before leaving.

Maybe he really _was_ avoiding House. A cloud of fear hovered in the back of House's mind.

"I'm gonna go check on him!" House announced cheerfully. Three blank faces looked back at him.

"While he's probably not sick," Foreman admitted, "I don't think he'd want to see you if you're the reason he didn't come in."

"Hey, that's not fair," House said in a hurt voice, somewhat surprised at Foreman's intuition. "You're so _mean_, Foreman."

He stuck his tongue out again, grabbed his cane and headed for the door.

Just as he thought. No one was game enough to try and stop him.

* * *

House felt that creepy you're-being-watched feeling as he was about to go through the glass doors of the hospital lobby, and searched around. 

_Why am I not surprised?_

Tritter was sitting calmly on a bench nearby, and met his glare levelly.

"One problem," House said on approach. "It's not a dark _or_ stormy night, so the bright sun outside is making this intimidation attempt less scary on your part."

"I'm not here to scare you, Doctor House," Tritter said evenly.

"B-but then what's with the ugly mask?"

"I'm just here to let you know that the rehab deal is back on," Tritter said, without missing a beat. It was clearly a rehearsed delivery. And he didn't even acknowledge House's insult.

House narrowed his eyes.

"Last night-"

"It's Christmas, Doctor House," Tritter said, but his blue eyes were completely devoid of warmth. "No imprisonment, just rehab. You get to keep your licence."

House stared at him, trying to find anything revealing in the other man's face. Even with this supposedly innocent change of heart, there was something undeniably smug about Tritter. Something House was overlooking – he couldn't guess what.

"What's the catch?" he asked finally, biting back another sarcastic comment he was longing to hurl Tritter's way.

"No catch," Tritter said, smiling. He stood up and brushed past House. "Give my regards to everyone. Especially Doctor Wilson."

House watched him walk out the door with a scowl on his face, wishing a bus would veer far enough off its designated route and wipe that slimy jerk off the planet. He knew it was immature, but he couldn't help it. Tritter just brought out that side of him.

And the way he'd said Wilson's name…

Well, Tritter was just childishly reminding him that Wilson had sold him out. If that was his only ace, then House was unimpressed.

Sure, he was far from thrilled that Wilson had made that deal with Tritter in the first place. But somewhere deep down he knew, even if he tried to pretend otherwise, that Wilson had in that stupid way of his been trying to help him.

He didn't like it much but last night he had come to one conclusion.

After he'd paid out Wilson for faking a sick day, he really did owe his friend an apology… of sorts.

_

* * *

RAP RAP RAP. _

House glared at the closed hotel door, lowering his cane for the fifth time. All the more proof that Wilson was either faking a sick day and had gone out with some chronically cute nurse or was faking a sick day because he didn't want to see House.

Come to think of it, House wasn't sure which was worse. He paused in thought.

_Definitely the nurse._

He tried to look through the fish-eye peephole but, just as expected, he couldn't see anything. He knocked his cane on the door again.

"Now, Gertrude, I know we've had our differences but I swear I don't mind what you do with the sheep!" he called cheerily. No response. Wilson was either extremely peeved or extremely not there. Any normal person would probably give up right about now, but, well… normality was for boring people.

And, all obnoxiousness aside… House just wanted to see him. Even if Wilson only slammed the door in his face, even if he just lectured him… it didn't matter. It would at least be something.

_Aha._

A meek looking maid was eyeing him suspiciously from behind a trolley of dirty towels, as she waited at the elevator. House pasted on his best charming face on and approached her.

"Excuse me, miss," he said. "I seem to have locked myself out of my room… you have a master key, right?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, cocking an eyebrow. "You need to see the desk downstairs so they can confirm your identity."

_You heard the sheep comment, huh?_

"I see," House said.

_May you have the most infinitely impossible sheets to fold._

He turned and walked back to Wilson's door, and awkwardly sat down in front of it.

"I'll just wait here until my _boyfriend_ comes back and we'll have loud raucous sex all over that tidy breakable room."

She looked at him in bemusement, then shook her head and turned away as she entered the lift.

_Good._

House quickly got up, and swiped the stolen white magnetic card through the slot on Wilson's door. The little LED flashed a nice congratulatory green. With luck, the maid wouldn't realise it was missing until she got to wherever the hell maids go with dirty towels. That was long enough.

He pushed the door open, pulling the white card out and throwing it down in front of the opposite door as it closed. For good measure, he added the DO NOT DISTURB card to Wilson's door.

"I know you're in here," he said in a high-pitched voice. No answer. He walked in, wrinkling his nose at the strange tidiness that Wilson somehow endured. How anyone could live in a hotel room was beyond him.

"Your room defies the law of entropy," he said, spotting a Wilson-looking lump in the bed to his right. "Hmm, maybe you actually _are_ sick?"

"Go away House," came a muffled grumble.

"Sorry, I don't speak Gruntoid," House said lightly, sitting down in one of the empty chairs nearby, an appalling structure with no clothes hung over it, no bags sitting in it, no kind of mess whatsoever. He could just see the top of Wilson's hair above the quilt, and was about to make a comment about the other's tousled brown bed-hair when Wilson pulled the quilt up over his head.

"_Please_, House. Just leave."

House frowned. This wasn't like Wilson at all. Well, not really. House looked up when there was a sharp rapping on the door – even more annoying than his cane, by far.

"_I'll_ get that," he said brightly. He opened the door to see his friend the Maid there, standing crossly with her boss, the Manager.

"You are-" began the Manager sternly.

"Visiting a sick friend who's too ill to open the door himself," House said dryly. "Now, if he were to _die_ on your premises, would you be liable if you hadn't let me – a practicing doctor – attend to him?"

The Manager and Maid both glared at him, and the balding manager strode past him into the room.

"Mr Wilson, are you-"

"I'm fine," said Wilson's hoarse voice. "He's fine being here too. Thanks for checking."

"Very well, sir," said the weaselly Manager, walking back past House snottily. House just rolled his eyes – he couldn't be bothered coming up with an insult – and shut the door behind the two annoyances.

He walked back towards the chair.

"Can you go now?" Wilson asked quietly, having finally raised his head from beneath the quilt, looking at House tiredly with bloodshot eyes. House swallowed, trying to stop himself from looking concerned. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Wilson like this. If ever…

He sat down again, resting his chin on his cane and looking at Wilson thoughtfully.

"You got drunk last night," he guessed, but he knew it was a weak one. There were no empty bottles around, and Wilson had never really been a big drinker. He wasn't much of a drinker at all, come to think of it.

"House," Wilson said tensely, rubbing his eyes slowly.

House's eyes widened.

"No way. You got a prostitute and you didn't share?"

House didn't notice the way Wilson blanched. He was too busy reaching down to pick up the unfurled tie lying near the bed, half under it. His fingers barely grasped it, but he managed to pull it towards him and pick it up.

"This isn't one of your ties…" House mused, eyeing the navy grey silk with its modest criss-crossing pattern and tiny white diamond-shapes.

"You keep a tab on my ties?" Wilson said in disbelief. His voice was a little shaky, House noticed.

"It's just not you, it doesn't scream '_Hey I'm so nice, the Powerpuff Girls hate me_'," he shrugged. "And there's the fact that the brand is way beyond _your_ budget. Was it a present from a girl you've been secretly seeing, hmm?"

"_No_."

House wasn't really paying attention though. Because he'd suddenly realised that the tie did in fact look familiar. He'd seen it before. But it wasn't Wilson's, was it? Somehow his memory wasn't linking it to Wilson, but then he'd never really paid that much attention to the tie fashion scene in general…

_Oh my god._

House dropped the tie like it was fire-hot, his mind suddenly blank of everything – emotions, expressions, sarcastic retorts – gone. He stared unfathomably at the crumpled fabric on the floor, his heart rate suddenly quickening against his will. He wanted to stand up, but his legs were failing him. He couldn't move. In fact, breathing was beginning to become a bit of a laborious task.

He tried to say something, as he finally looked back at Wilson. But the words wouldn't come.

He was looking at the same Wilson – same messy dark hair, same eyes always crinkled in a smile except for times like now, time when nobody felt like smiling… It wasn't the same. It was completely different.

"_Especially Doctor Wilson."_

House remembered Tritter's smug face with an all too sudden realisation. He swallowed slowly, still searching for words – any words.

"House, I-" But Wilson fell short, his eyes lowered.

"_The rehab deal is back on."_

Suddenly, Tritter's inexplicable change of heart didn't seem so inexplicable. And House was filled with the strangest feeling, one he didn't fully recognise or understand.

_Regret?_

House looked away, unable to look Wilson in the eye, trying to figure out why his chest suddenly hurt and just what it was that he was regretting.

_Is it that I regret letting things go this far? Not being there to stop him? Not being there for him? Or… or maybe… _

"Was he a good fuck?" he said coldly, hearing an odd bitterness in his voice. He didn't have to look at Wilson to see the hurt on his face.

He finally looked back when Wilson hadn't replied, and felt an unwanted twinge when he saw Wilson's pained expression.

Sometimes, it was like his brain didn't listen to him, too intent on voicing its latest witty remark.

"Guess he wasn't that great, then."

Wilson looked at him, stunned, a few tears escaping down his cheeks. Finally, he broke their gaze and scrubbed at his eyes angrily, looking at the floor for a moment with an unreadable expression; then Wilson rolled back over, turning his back to House and pulling the quilt over his head.

"The door's over there," House heard him mutter, almost inaudibly.

And, for once in his life, House couldn't think of a single thing to say.

* * *

**Endnote:** Poor Wilson… Well, House's reaction was far from positive. Did Wilson do it all for nothing? Hmmm… If you've read this far, thank you x 100! And although there are probably other flaws scattered throughout, I know for a fact that Tritter's tie is pretty accurately described, taken from 3:10. Yay! Anyway, so House has found out now – who _really_ thinks Tritter left his tie there by accident? What the hell is that psychotic police officer playing at? Please review and let me know what you thought – like it, lump it, suggestions, everything. !!(#.#)!! 

_- Amalialia -_


	3. The Blatant Lie

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**Disclaimer:** Don't own House. Smeg. Any factual errors are accidental and apologised for in advance. Contains implied slashy House/Wilson, an evil Tritter (yeah, that's new) and ambiguous consent.

**AN:** Argh – apologies for the delay. I really did intend to update sooner, but it's been hectic with research stuff at uni… so I ended up rather slowly bringing this chapter together. note: even longer than either of the previous ones! Thanks again for all the feedback!! Feel free to keep it coming – it's inspiring :)

**

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****III: The Blatant Lie**

Cameron looked up from the stack of folders when the glass door opened. Foreman and Chase followed suit, and all three laid eyes on the returning House.

She'd never seen him look so… shaken. She searched her mind for some other way to describe what she saw, because it was so foreign and somewhat disturbing, but she couldn't find one.

He was just _shaken_.

"Hey, how was-" Chase began, but House just looked at them all with a distracted gaze, his blue eyes seeming lighter and emptier than ever. He didn't even acknowledge that Chase had spoken, simply looked at them for a few seconds and then turned away.

They watched as House rested briefly on his cane while his other hand opened his office door, then he walked through and shut it behind him. Within a minute he had shut all the blinds and they couldn't see him anymore.

"What the hell?" Chase said, looking at Foreman and Cameron with a baffled expression. Cameron had to admit – it was weird. House was very rarely anything but arrogantly assured, and even more rarely devoid of an insult to fling at them.

"Do you think it has something to do with Wilson?" Cameron asked, feeling her forehead crease in a frown.

"Maybe Wilson's called it quits for good," Foreman shrugged. "Doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. I saw it coming."

"_Wilson_ was the one who sold House out," she pointed out, frowning deeper.

"He did it 'cause House has a problem," Foreman said, looking at her as if she were the most oblivious person in the world. "Come on – you don't think you can pop that many pills a day and _not_ have a problem?"

"He's in pain," she said stubbornly, glancing at Chase to see where he sat on this.

"Oh no, don't try and get me to take sides," he said quickly. He sighed. "Look… it's true. House has an issue with Vicodin. But… I don't think Wilson's motives were entirely pure, either. I mean, his assets were frozen…"

"That's right, Chase," Cameron said, shaking her head. "Sit on the fence."

_Thump._

They all looked up in surprise at the sudden noise. It was muted, but clearly came from House's closed-off office.

"Do you think-" Foreman began.

_Thump._

"What's _wrong_ with him!" Chase moaned into his hands. "We're never gonna get through these folders if we keep waiting for House to help."

Cameron frowned again, even the prospect of undue wrinkles unable to stop the expression.

_Thump._

"That's it," she said in exasperation, standing up. "I'm going to talk to him."

"Here," Foreman said, holding out the largest stack of manila folders. "Give him these on my behalf."

Cameron looked at him witheringly, but took them and walked towards House's dark office.

_Thump._

"Good luck," Chase said. She glanced back and he saluted at her. She rolled her eyes – just how old _was_ Chase? She couldn't believe they'd…

Not the point.

She'd just have to make House tell her what was wrong. Because something clearly had gone very badly.

Behind her, she heard the door open as Chase and Foreman left the room, off to find some better place to shelter if House decided to take his anger out on those in the near vicinity.

_Cowards._

Cameron knocked slightly on the door.

_Thump._

_Well, that's as good an invitation as anything else House ever gives,_ she thought to herself, trying the handle. Slightly surprised, she found it was open. She carefully pushed the door open, blinking so her eyes could adjust to the sudden shift to darkness inside House's office.

"House?" she ventured, scanning the room. She spotted House sitting in his chair, feet resting on top of his shelf, holding that oversized red tennis ball (the obvious source of the thumps) in his hands.

He fixed her with a cold look.

"Go _away_."

"House," she said gently, vaguely aware that she was talking to him in the same way she did to a difficult patient.

He looked away, back down at the ball, then up at the wall.

_Thump._

The ball rebounded back into his hands, only to be glared at and thrown back at the wall.

_Thump._

"House!" Cameron near-shouted, crossing her arms. "What happened with Wilson? Obviously it's got something to do with him, and judging by your reaction he's finally decided to break up the friendship because he's realised you're not worth all the time and effort he wasted on you!"

House paused, and turned back to her, clenching the tennis ball in one hand.

"If I wanted your own personal feelings towards me, I'd act pathetic so you'd flock over to comfort me," he snapped. "As it is, I don't. Get out, Cameron."

"No," she said coolly. Her expression softened, as she remembered why she had come in here. "Look, House… he'll change his mind. Maybe he's angry because of the whole Tritter situation, but he won't stay mad at you forever. Wilson cares a lot about you."

House looked at her as if she were a repulsive and ignorant bug he was longing to swat away.

"Sorry, you guessed wrong!" he said in mock cheerfulness. "But you do get this lovely tennis ball."

He hurled it towards her, and she quickly moved her free hand up to catch it. She managed to grab it, and sighed as she dropped it to the ground, letting it roll away under a chair.

"I'm the one with the right to be angry," House muttered, turning away and staring at the wall.

Cameron looked at him, surprised.

_What on earth does House have to be angry about? He's the one who pissed Tritter off, and caused this whole mess…_

"Why?" she asked unsurely.

"You can go now. You're welcome to leave those folders Foreman sent through on my desk."

Cameron immediately took a seat opposite House, the two of them separated by his large, messy mahogany desk.

"House, please," she said. "What happened?"

He fixed her with a hard gaze, his light eyes filled with some strange emotion. Then he laughed, a little awkwardly.

"I keep dialling his number, and hanging up before it rings," he said. "I don't know what I'd say to him if he picked up."

Cameron didn't say anything. House sighed, rubbing his temple.

"I went to see Tritter last night," he said finally, watching her face. Even though she knew he was looking for it, she couldn't stop the shocked look from spreading across her features.

"You did?"

"Yeah," House said shortly, staring at his feet crossed over the shelf. "And the bastard said no deal."

"But-"

"So I left," House continued. "And what do you know? This morning, he's suddenly changed his mind. For no apparent reason. I figured it was a joke. But now…"

He lowered his eyes, and she could see his lashes brushing the top of his cheek. Cameron's heart ached for him.

"Wilson made a deal with him," House said quietly.

"I _know_," she said, trying to stop the anger from creeping into her voice.

"No," House muttered. "A different deal."

Cameron couldn't hide the confusion she felt. She had no idea what House was talking about, or why he suddenly seemed so aversive. And he seemed to think she'd magically understand his vague words, as if she were some kind of psychic.

"What deal did he make then?" she asked patiently.

House finally looked back at her.

"Wilson and Tritter… he let him…"

Cameron frowned.

"I found Tritter's tie on Wilson's floor," House said bluntly. "Does that make things clear enough for you?"

Cameron's stomach turned. She stared at House in shock, unblinking, her mind struggling to comprehend what he'd just said – and all the implications of his cold words. If House was telling the truth, then…

_And all this time, I thought Wilson was just - _

"God," she breathed, the air suddenly seeming thick and heavy. She hesitated. "Was Wilson… okay?"

House was silent, looking back at the wall.

"I don't know," he said. "I… I got angry. I left."

"You just left him?" she said in disbelief. She felt cold inside, her mind conjuring an image of the manipulative detective that had been pursuing House relentlessly. She couldn't believe he would actually… and Wilson – why had he agreed?

"What was I supposed to do?" he said tersely. "I _never_ asked him to do that. I wouldn't have. If he's that damn moronic-"

"Hey!" Cameron said furiously. "He did it to help you! I can't believe you'd actually hold anything against him. After _that_. Do you even give a shit about him?"

House got to his feet in one swift motion, staring at her from his full height with a mixed expression of anger, hatred and… regret?

She wasn't even sure if any of it was directed at her.

"Get _out_."

"I'm going," she said icily, pulling the glass door shut with a loud bang behind her.

It was only once she'd left the office that she realised she was shaking.

* * *

_God._

Wilson buried his face in his pillow, feeling completely and utterly drained. It had to be sometime vaguely after lunch, and he certainly hadn't eaten since... before… but all he felt was a distant growl of hunger. It definitely wasn't something he was going to get out of bed for.

_I think I could lie here forever._

The thought scared him, in a strange and unfamiliar way. He'd never been someone to spend much more time than necessary in bed – except with Julia, but that was so long ago now, he was beginning to wonder if half his memories with her were even real…

After Tritter had left, he'd forced himself to get up. It hadn't been easy – he was in pain – but he managed to get to the shower. He'd let the water heat up, and then slipped inside the shower cubicle, letting the burning water wash over him.

_As if it somehow made a difference._

He felt sick just thinking about Tritter. And everything he'd let him do. Some horrible part of him wondered if it was all just some twisted joke, if Tritter would just laugh it off and send House to jail anyway. Then it really would have been all for nothing.

No… he believed Tritter would keep his side of the bargain. He had to believe that much.

After the shower, he'd found he lacked the energy to do anything but sink back into bed – despite what it had been witness to only hours ago.

And then House had come.

_Did I expect something more from him?_

He didn't do it so that House would feel sorry for him. He did it because the idiot, left alone, was going to send himself to hell on the basis of pride alone. If he wasn't so goddamn stubborn…

And he'd prayed House would understand – if just that much, it wouldn't matter if House couldn't forgive him.

_Yeah, sure._

He knew now he'd been kidding himself. If House didn't forgive him… he didn't know what he'd do. It was some bitter twist that he'd done the one thing to save House that would drive him away, maybe forever.

Wilson breathed out into his pillow, feeling his hot breath warm the cotton pillowcase beneath his face. He felt so hollowed out inside, like Tritter had taken something important away from him, something he'd not even known he had.

_Can I ever get it back?_

A knock at the door startled him. It wasn't Tritter – _thank god_ – because it was a short series of sharp raps.

_House?_

He forced himself to get up, hoping against all logic that House had, for some reason, come back. But even if it was House, he didn't know what he would say. He'd always had somewhat of a way with words – the academic of his many classes – but now, he felt that words were failing him.

_How many times can you say sorry before it's enough?_

He shuffled to the door, and peered through the lens. He blinked in surprise, but moved to open the door.

An ashen-faced Cameron was standing at his door, wringing her hands in front of her. When he opened the door, her eyes fixed on him and before he could react, she'd thrown both her arms around him in a tight hug.

He was more than taken aback, but… it felt nice. As if he could feel her untainted emotions seeping into him through this simplest, most innocent hug, devoid of desire and lust and those other betraying emotions.

"God, Wilson," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shirt. "Why…?"

They stood there for a few minutes, Cameron with her arms around him as far as they would go and him just standing there, trying to absorb all the good he could feel in her, feeling her heart beat against his chest.

Finally, he pulled her inside, and shut the door, stepping back from her embrace.

"Do you want tea?" he offered, hating how husky his voice sounded. She looked at him as if he were crazy.

She opened her mouth to say something, then paused, mouth half-open, and finally closed it again, with a small nod.

"Thanks," she said softly. He moved to his kettle – kindly provided by the hotel – and set out two mugs, adding a teabag to each. Cameron took a seat – the same seat House had sat in… and the same seat Tritter had sat in - and looked at him with concern written all over her face.

He took a seat opposite her, looking down at the glossy but empty table between them as he waited for the water to boil.

"Oh, Wilson," she said. "Why did you do it?"

"House told you," he said thickly, his voice sounding strange in his own ears.

_Has he yelled it out to everyone he met?_

"He hasn't told anyone but me," she said quietly. "At least, I don't think so."

Wilson wondered if his emotions were always so visible. He played with the hem of his boxer shorts, wondering why it didn't bother him that Cameron had seen him like this. In a crumpled shirt and boxer shorts, unshaven, looking like hell. Julia had always hated it when he was anything less than presentable, and somewhere along the line he'd developed this idea that all women were like that.

_Maybe she's just hiding it because… of the circumstances._

Which brought him back to those particular circumstances.

"House has been so horrible to you lately," Cameron said, her voice tinged with anger, staring at the ground. "_I've_ been horrible… I'm so sorry... and… and I don't understand how you can, after what he says and does… how you could…?"

She didn't seem like she could say it. For once, he felt like the strong one.

"How I could let him screw me?" he asked finally. He sighed. "For House, Cameron."

_Because I'm waiting for something from him that I'll probably never get._

"For House," she repeated in her soft voice, chewing her lip. She seemed like she wanted to say something, but she didn't. At last, she looked sideways at him, her resolve suddenly harder. "Is it over now, Wilson? Do you think… ?"

He paused, thinking over her question. Would Tritter leave House alone now? Well, it all came back to the same question he'd been asking himself since last night, even while Tritter…

_Why me?_

Why had Tritter even demanded such a thing as he had? It was probably because he knew Wilson would be the one most likely to comply – the one foolish enough to do _anything_ – but he still didn't know what Tritter's goal had been.

It wasn't as he'd said, after all.

"_I like you."_

They'd both seen the emptiness in those icy words. So it had to be some kind of attack aimed at House.

"You're his best friend, Wilson," Cameron said, now playing with a lock of her hair distractedly. But he spotted a trace of unhidden pain flickering across her face. "No one is closer to House than you… none of us… he won't let anyone else in, because you mean the most to him."

_Was she reading my thoughts?_

"That's why Tritter wanted you to make that deal," she said, sighing slightly. "Because if House pushes you away, he's got nobody."

"I can't make him forgive me," Wilson said bitterly, remembering House's expression of unconcealed shock, his cold remarks.

"You're not the one who needs to be forgiven," Cameron said resolutely. "He's the one who needs to say sorry – for not being there for you the way you've always been for him. For letting things get to this stage…"

"We'd be waiting for the moon to land in the ocean if we waited for House to apologise," he commented wryly.

"It's different this time," Cameron said ambiguously, looking instead out the window. "God… I'd kill that bastard Tritter if I could. I really would."

She looked back at him with troubled eyes.

"Did he hurt you?"

He was somewhat relieved when the kettle clicked over on the counter, and got up quickly – so as not to reveal to Cameron that it hurt to do so.

"No, not really," he said lightly, now that his back was to her. He gripped the kettle's handle tightly, pouring the hot water into the two cups. "I'm fine, Cameron."

He added milk, and sugar – from somewhere in the past he vaguely remembered how Cameron had her tea – and carried both cups over to the table. She accepted hers, their eyes meeting.

"Liar," she accused softly, as he sat down opposite her.

He smiled weakly at her, sipping his tea.

The two of them sat in silence, each sorting through their own convoluted thoughts.

"House will come around," Cameron said finally, and she said it with such conviction he almost believed it was true.

Almost.

* * *

_I always wondered why House could never let me close to him. I can admit that it started as some foolish crush, but over time I think it must have developed into something more. And even though my feelings became more serious – more real – it didn't seem to have any effect. He still kept the same old barriers up, refusing to let me in._

_I think I understand now. _

_It's always been there, in the back of my mind, but until now I never really gave it too much credit. It's obvious enough to all of us that Wilson has something that none of us come close to with House, and it's always been sort of surprising because his outlook on the world is so radically different to House's – they seem like diametrical opposites. _

_I wanted to know why House couldn't love me back, and I guess I finally get it. _

_Because he's waiting for someone else. And I can't change that, no matter what I do. I couldn't see it before, didn't want to believe it, really… _

_Wilson would do anything for House, and I'd be kidding myself if I thought that his feelings were unrequited. I guess I really was fooling myself all this time._

_But I want House to be happy. I do. And that means he's got to see that his stubborn pride _has_ to start coming second to his feelings, or he really will lose Wilson -_

_And Tritter will have won. _

* * *

**

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Endnote:** Kind of a slow chapter really… but important aftermath things. Originally I didn't plan to bring the other characters in too much, so Cameron was a bit of a surprise even to me. Hopefully it worked out all right (hint: let me know!!). I really don't intend this to turn epic, so I think it should only last a few more chapters at most. Don't worry – Tritter hasn't just mysteriously disappeared. Well - he has, I suppose - but it's not permanent! He'll be back… 

**p.s** if anyone knows the reference of the chapter title, a cookie to them! It's obscure. Trust me.

_-Amalialia-_


	4. The Honest Truth

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**Disclaimer:** Don't own House. Smeg. Any factual errors are accidental and apologised for in advance. Contains implied slashy House/Wilson, an evil Tritter (yeah, that's new) and ambiguous consent.

**AN: **This chapter took a while to write! I kept getting stuck $.$ Thanks to those who reviewed – it really made my day! I love reviews. Reviews are nice, hint! Anyway! Here's the chapter. Yay for Wilson! P.S. No one guessed the reference… but actually I couldn't find it on the net so that's understandable. It's from a poem, _Time Is The Hunter_. If you ever come across it, you'll know why it's cool!

* * *

**IV: The Honest Truth **

\And it's all too familiar,

And it happens all the time.

All the cards begin to stack up,

Twisting heartache into fine, little pieces

That avoid an awful crime,

But it's you I can't deny… \

-- _My Blue Heaven_, Taking Back Sunday

* * *

Wilson stood outside the shining glass doors of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, his bag in his right hand and his left hand clenched in a fist to stop it from shaking. 

_When did I get so damn nervous?_

It was because he knew what awaited him inside.

Or rather _who_.

He hadn't heard from House since yesterday morning, and despite what he wanted to believe, despite how assuredly Cameron had promised that House would forgive him, he didn't _really _think that was about to change. If this was Tritter's endgame, then the detective could relish the fact that he'd hurt Wilson a hundred times more than House.

He'd only been away from the hospital for a day – one measly day away from the joys of what had previously been imposed clinic duty – and yet he felt as distant and removed from the bustling hospital as conceivably possible. Tritter's 'deal' and its inevitable consequences had taken him from the relative protection of ready assimilation into such commotion as he saw before him, beyond the sliding glass doors.

_Will they see it in my eyes?_

Now, he felt different. It wasn't the world that had sped up and left him behind, after all – he was the one who'd fallen out of line. He hadn't been deluded enough to think himself innocent before, not by any means; even so, it had been easier to see the good in the world then. Because, before _this_, he'd still been able to hold on to the hope that maybe, one day, House might feel the same way about him.

_And now I don't think he ever will - not if every time he looks at me he can see only Tritter._

Cuddy had called yesterday, in the afternoon, her voice harried and abrupt. She demanded to know whether the rumours were true.

_Is it really over, James? For good?_

_Yes_, Wilson thought morosely, lowering his eyes to the ground, his grip on his bag tightening. _It really is._

As quickly as it had come, the hurricane that had been Tritter was fading away. He hadn't seen or spoken to Tritter since the detective had left in the early hours of Christmas morning. Cuddy told him that all frozen accounts had been fixed, and that when he returned he was completely reinstated in his old oncologist position.

_Just like that._

If she suspected anything, Cuddy had said nothing. And Wilson wasn't kidding himself enough to think that Cuddy really believed Tritter had just _miraculously_ given up on torturing House. He knew that she knew such a development had come at a price – because it was the same way she saw the world. Nothing was for free. But she wouldn't ask, of course.

_Where to from here? _

Those words had run through his mind many times over the last twenty four hours, as he lay in bed – yes, ashamedly, most of the past day he'd spent in that _same_ bed – staring at the ceiling, thinking everything through, wondering if there had been another option and he'd been too blind to see it, running Cameron's words over because he so badly wanted to believe them, feeling again the heat of Tritter's body too close to his, seeing only one face, the same face he'd seen for _how many damn years now?_

It all came back to House.

He'd held it against Cuddy that for countless years she'd nursed a soft spot for House – hero worship from too long ago now – and yet he'd never looked at himself in the same mirror critically enough. _He_ was the one who couldn't stop himself when it came to House. He was the one who could barely say no to anything House demanded of him, naively grasping at this false hope that things might change if he just kept at it.

It was the reason his marriages failed, the reason he could never hold down a relationship, the reason he always felt compelled to screw things up so they – undeserving of such unkindness – would turn away from him.

Because House had always been there, and it had been enough.

And if he still had House after this, he'd be fine – he knew he would be.

_But deciding whether House will forgive me is not something I get to do._

Someone brushed past him – a mother, pulling her pale daughter behind her, the child struggling and trying to get away from the hospital even though she was obviously not well – and he realised he'd been standing, staring, for long enough.

He took a breath and walked towards the doors.

* * *

Cameron walked with a purpose that morning, and she knew exactly where she was walking to. 

House was missing from his office earlier, when the three of them – Foreman, Chase and herself – had arrived. Foreman's pile of folders, the one that she'd delivered yesterday, had been sitting on the table when she got back from Wilson's (covered in post-its in House's messy scrawl, with House having gone home early) but the new day had brought a whole new batch of folders and they wanted to consult with him. His random disappearances weren't really new, but only she knew the significance of it this time. And so she knew that they wouldn't find him in any usual spots, because this time he didn't want to be found.

Subtly, she got the others to agree to split up and look for him, and made sure she was the only one to go past where she knew he'd be. They went their separate ways, and she headed straight for the nurses' locker room. Well, almost straight – she didn't want either of the other two to follow her. Maybe they'd find out about Wilson eventually, but she wasn't going to be the reason if she could help it.

Taking a deep breath – well aware of the reason she had come here – she slowly pushed open the door to the nurses' locker room.

Sure enough, House was sitting right in the middle of the room, in plain sight should any unsuspecting nurse happen by. However, at the moment the locker room was empty; she couldn't help but wonder if that was luck or if it was _because_ House was there.

As his stormy blue eyes fixed coldly on her, she decided luck was out of the equation.

"What do you want?" he said shortly.

"You know, you don't have to hide in here just because Wilson's back today," she said, knowing this would prompt a defensive response from House. It had been so long now that she could read him too well – every sneer, every deliberation that crossed his face when something intrigued him, every precise movement he made.

"I don't hide," he said derisively, narrowing his eyes. "I happen to like the atmosphere of this room. I think I'll ask Cuddy for an office relocation."

"House," Cameron said softly, sitting down at the other end of the bench he sat on. She didn't face him, instead sitting somewhat adjacent to him. He, on the other hand, was sitting with one leg on either side of the bench, examining the top of his cane absently.

"Are you really going to shut him out like this?" she asked, picturing Wilson's tired, lined face.

"Isn't that what you want?" House said in a biting tone. She blinked at how harsh he had suddenly become. "Haven't you always wanted me all to yourself? Playing up to that lovesick little dream you've had of saving me. Like some lonely broken fool you could somehow make better."

She couldn't help it – the tears stung her eyes - but she refused to let them fall.

"That's not fair," she said quietly, not looking at him. Just looking instead at the rusting, kicked-in locker directly ahead of her, she tried to force everything she'd felt – and still felt – for House down into some dark region within her, because this wasn't about her, it was about Wilson. And it was about House not making another stupid mistake, because this one could be _it_.

"The truth hurts, does it?"

She gritted her teeth, determined not to let his words get to her. It was different this time; at other times, it had always been about trying to get closer to him, because of how she felt about House. But this time it wasn't selfish – it wasn't for her own sake – and so backing down wasn't something she could easily let herself to do, even though the acquiescent part of her wanted to leave House to mull in his own misfortune and get far, far away.

"He wants you to forgive him," she said at length. House scowled at her.

"He _slept_ with Tritter."

"To save _you_ from going to jail!" Cameron cried, her fists clenching. "And in all your self-pity, _House_, have you even thought – just for a moment – about what he went through for your sake? What he _did_ to stop you being persecuted for a genuine addiction?"

House was silent, but looking sideways at him she could see he was fuming, furiously trying to devise some witty response.

_But what is there to say to that?_

"I never asked him to," House said, like he'd said before, and she looked at him curiously. There was some weak tone in his voice that stuck out, so utterly wrong coming from House. The kind of tone that said,_ I don't know what to do_.

She averted her eyes, landing them again on the rusty locker with all its broken bits. It was funny, the way it had gotten so bad and yet no one had thought to replace it. They just left it there to rot further, its own testament to itself.

"I think he might love you," she said quietly. "And…"

She hesitated.

"…I think you love him back."

The air hung thick and heavy in the nurses' locker room, Cameron refusing to look back at House because it would break her heart to see the truth in his eyes, because it would make everything she'd suspected, everything she should have accepted a long time ago, into an inevitable reality.

"You need to talk to him," she said hoarsely, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He might not have made the best choice, but he did it to help you, House. It's always been that way."

She stood up, still not looking at House. This time, when she walked away, she was walking away for good, leaving the House-ridden pieces of her heart behind in this dingy little locker room. It had been this way for too long, waiting for things to change when she should have realised they _couldn't_. Time to move on, at last.

Time to let go of House – because she'd never really had him to begin with.

"I don't know what to do," she heard him say, just before she reached the door. Because he couldn't see her face – her back was to him – she allowed herself a small smile.

_Has he ever said that before? And meant it?_

"You will," she said, pulling open the door and letting it swing slowly to a close behind her.

* * *

Wilson looked up distractedly at the slow knock on his door, then froze, feeling all blood drain from his face. He carefully put the pen he was holding down, closing the fingers of his left hand over his palm, trying to be calm and steady and feeling anything but. 

"What are you doing here?" he managed to choke out, his stomach turning.

Tritter smiled at him with a look of absolute smugness, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable Wilson was feeling. He walked in and took an uninvited seat opposite him. Suddenly, his desk – the only thing separating them - didn't seem big enough.

"Just came to give you an update," Tritter said unaffectedly, with a slight shrug. "The DA wants two months rehab for House, no less. But there won't be any charges – everything's been dropped, just like I said."

"And this is enough now?" Wilson said levelly, finally looking Tritter in the eyes. His heart was pounding and his stomach felt loopy, and he hoped desperately that Tritter couldn't tell.

Tritter was watching him carefully, his light eyes narrowed and considering. For a wild moment, Wilson looked at the detective, at his expression, and saw something of House there. It scared him.

"I am satisfied with the outcome," Tritter said simply.

_He's like a snake._

Wilson considered the man before him, his mind calling forth memories he wished he could forget.

_He can sit there so still, so seemingly placidly… until he strikes._

"It was deserved, you know," Tritter added, a smile twisting his lips.

_And then he's deadly._

Wilson said nothing.

"House brought this on himself, because of the way he treats people. And you, Doctor Wilson… no matter whether he's right or wrong, you've always gotten him out of it."

"You haven't changed anything, then," Wilson said coldly. "The events of mere days do not change the habits of a lifetime. And I've gotten him 'out of it' again, haven't I?"

Tritter smirked.

"Haven't you realised yet, doctor?" he said softly. "I didn't intend to just send him to jail. That was a viable option, of course, but this was much more than that. I wanted to take something important from him, and it took me a while to figure out exactly what because he hides the things closest to him considerably well. But I succeeded."

_Me._

Wilson swallowed, wanting to glare at the other man but lacking the willpower and energy to do so. And some part of him was still cowering in the corner of his mind, blocking out everything and trying to escape.

"Congratulations," he said at last, his words empty of emotion.

Tritter's smirk was both mocking and venomous.

* * *

From his position outside Wilson's office, House could see the two inside. Wilson looked very rigid, his eyes fixed on the man sitting opposite his desk. Tritter on the other hand was leaning back in the chair, seemingly at ease, probably with some smarmy bastard smile plastered on his face. 

_It wouldn't be so hard to kill him, really._

House suppressed the thought, although devising numerous ends for Tritter would undoubtedly occupy his time later. This was more serious than that.

Because he didn't know what to do. He'd been so cold to Wilson before, even when he knew it wasn't fair on the man he'd once considered his best friend. Whenever he thought of Tritter… _and Wilson_… it made him feel disgusted with both the detective and with Wilson, for allowing such an invasion.

But at the same time, for all his sniping and grumbling throughout their friendship, he didn't know if he'd be able to cope with shutting Wilson out of his life altogether. Cameron had struck a sore note earlier, but the stubborn part of House just laughed –_ you can live without him_ – so assuredly that he wondered if it were true.

Was his friendship with Wilson more than it had always been?

He'd joked about it, once or twice. But it had never really been serious about it, not really. He didn't think it was such a simple thing as being 'straight' or 'gay' – because he _certainly_ didn't feel anything for Foreman or Chase – but rather something more intricately interwoven into his personality.

He'd loved Stacey, yes. Part of him still did love her. But it was the same _him_ that believed itself capable of loving Wilson in a similar way, just as deeply. It wasn't just a matter of desire, or lust. It was because he only truly loved the people who were embedded deep within his life, the ones who somehow got past the barriers he'd established to protect himself.

_There was something said once about best friends and lovers._

He couldn't remember it now.

He watched as Tritter got up, as Wilson's eyes rose and watched the other man leave. He made sure he was out of sight as Tritter left Wilson's office; he didn't trust himself to not kill the man if he had to exchange words with him. Tritter walked away, and House turned his attention back to Wilson.

_He looks so familiar._

The thought surprised House, because it was somewhat out of place. But Wilson _had_ become a familiar, consistent part of his life, and even though the natural, obstinate tendency was to cut him off and never speak to the other doctor again, he wasn't sure if he could go through with it.

He watched Wilson as the other lowered his gaze from the door, looking down at his desk. Wilson stared down at the wood for a moment, before burying his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the desk. His ruffled dark hair hung forwards over his hands.

House grimaced – _why does seeing him like this hurt so badly?_ – but he forced himself to look away.

_I don't know what to do._

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Endnote: I really like this chapter, oddly enough – even though it was harder to write, or maybe because of that! I hope it came off alright. Story note: in a way perhaps it should be easy for House to forgive Wilson – there's nothing to forgive, right? But sometimes it's a little more complicated than that. The next chapter, I believe, will be the last in this story. And I will have finished something at last. \cheer// Please leave a review if you can!! I'd love to know what you thought.**

- _Amalialia_ -


	5. My Blue Heaven

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**Disclaimer:** Don't own House. Smeg. Any factual errors are accidental and apologised for in advance. Contains implied slashy House/Wilson, an evil Tritter (yeah, that's new) and ambiguous consent.

**AN:** Here it is - the Last Chapter. Lol, in all honesty I don't encounter these very often when writing. So this is definitely cool, actually finishing the fic. A milestone, perhaps. Thank you very much to my super reviewers! The reviews were so positive, it was really great to hear that people liked the last chapter –and even Cameron too! - as much as I did. I'm actually not too sure what people are expecting from this chapter, so I hope it lives up :)

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V: My Blue Heaven **

\ Is this all too familiar?

Does it happen all the time?

I'm just asking you to hear me.

Could you please, just once, just hear me?

More than anything you wanted to be right.

Still it's you, you, it's you I can't deny…\

-- _My Blue Heaven, Taking Back Sunday_

* * *

One more signature to go. 

"Right there, on the last line," said the docile receptionist, gesturing helpfully. He followed her direction, without saying anything although he might have liked to, and signed his name on the said line. His signature looked messy and unfamiliar to him, like the penned alias of someone that was not himself.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

Scowling down at his name that was not his name, he pushed the papers away and looked expectantly at the receptionist.

"Thank you, Doctor House," she said brightly.

_As if I _didn't_ just sign all my goddamn rights away._

"I still have the rest of today," he said, not a question.

"Yes."

"Good." House turned away from her, using his cane as support. He spotted Cameron leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over her pressed white labcoat, watching him with a funny expression. There was a lingering sadness on her face and in her eyes – he knew her well enough to see it – but as soon as their eyes met, the trace was gone and she smiled at him.

_Why is she pretending so hard?_

Something had changed though. Before, she'd clearly harboured affections for him that he could neither understand nor return. But now she looked at him with a different sort of emotion emanating from her facial features, a distant kind of pain that she was trying to hide but didn't seem quite able to. It was different to how it had been before, and he wasn't sure he fully grasped why.

"This is the right thing," she said softly, her light voice barely indiscernible from the muted background noise of the rehabilitation clinic. It was an ambiguous statement.

"I suppose so," House said begrudgingly, glancing around somewhat distastefully. "If it's this or jail, I suppose this scrapes by narrowly."

"Have you talked to Wilson?" she asked, and the pain she was hiding (poorly) was suddenly clearer. House frowned ever so slightly, despite the fact that he didn't like showing any sort of concern about anyone or anything.

"No," he said aversively, taking a step to get past her and walking out into the hall. She didn't follow him, didn't even turn, but her voice carried, suddenly a bit louder, a little more urgent.

"Are you going to?"

He paused, resting on his cane, his leg hurting and his mind hazy.

"Yeah," he said.

_Let her interpret that however the hell she wants to._

He still didn't know what he was going to say.

* * *

Wilson played absently with a pile of paper clips strewn across his desk, pushing them across, into a heap, then spreading them out again. His mind wasn't really working properly; it just kept thinking: _House goes into rehab today_. It was his fifth day back at work, the sixth day since House spoke to him, the seventh day since Tritter… 

Well, he didn't need to think about that.

He'd been having nightmares the last few nights, reliving that night with Tritter in broken flashes which was bad enough, but the detail that pushed it over the edge, the part that made him wake up in a cold sweat with his heart pounding and his eyes burning, was seeing House's face at the end _every time _with a mixed expression of loathing, disappointment and disgust, looking down at him on the bed for what seemed like forever until, finally, irrevocably, he turned away.

It was too much like how the reality was playing out – weren't dreams supposed to be the opposite of reality? He'd read that somewhere. That dreams weren't a premonition at all of what was going to happen, but the subconscious' subtle reminder that dreams are just dreams.

It was New Year's Eve tonight, and what did he have to celebrate? Nothing at all. The loss of a friendship that had been on shaky ground for years – that many years not by his choice but because House had always kept him at a distance, a closer distance than he kept most but still far enough away for them to keep going in the same circles around each other, nothing changing.

Well, something had changed now.

_Will he even say anything to me before he goes into rehab?_

Somehow their paths hadn't crossed very much in the last few days, and he wasn't foolish enough to believe that House hadn't intended it. They'd been caught out in the same hallway once in the last four days, and what had happened? House had shuffled past as if Wilson were invisible.

Wilson had come to a stop when he saw House, his mouth half open in a hello, but the words had died on his tongue as House, with a determined look, walked right by him.

_God, that hurt._

Why did he make all the wrong choices when it came to House? Tritter - it had seemed like the only option, the only thing he could do to stop his best friend from going to a place he didn't deserve to be, the only way to stop the merciless detective from crucifying someone who saved people on a daily basis as if it were nothing.

It wasn't nothing. It was _something_.

It was true enough though, that something had needed to be done. Maybe he couldn't make House look him in the eye and maybe he couldn't even expect to be forgiven. But now House wasn't going to jail, he was going to rehab, and perhaps he'd get clean for good.

Maybe that could be enough.

_I'm kidding myself again, aren't I?_

It would never be enough to be this close to House and stay at a resentful distance forever. But that was okay. He could go – move away – run to the ends of the earth if he had to, away from House, and maybe if he was gone long enough he would forget House had ever existed, had ever taken up more space than he should have in Wilson's head.

He could go to Nepal, perhaps, or the central icy regions of Iceland. Somewhere far away and foreign enough that nothing of what was real would be real anymore.

Then, maybe then, he'd forget.

_I don't even know how long I've loved him._

It felt like forever.

The silence in his head seemed too loud, like it was roaring around him like an empty sea with no oceans to fill, buzzing around aimlessly inside his head and outside it, everywhere at once.

_I can't stay here._

In a blind kind of daze, he scooped together what he could, into his bag, and hurriedly got up, nearly running from his office, from the hospital – _from House_ – and back to the safety of the hotel room that held the dirty secrets he didn't want anyone else to ever find out about.

_It's too close, all of it._

_

* * *

_

This may be the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

_It might be the hardest thing I ever do._

* * *

Wilson looked up at the sudden series of raps on his door. 

His stomach turned – he wasn't sure why but he could probably make a wild guess – and he slowly got up from his sitting position on the bed and made his way towards the door.

A glance through the peephole made his heart suddenly beat faster.

_This is it - he'll either forgive me or renounce me._

And then he remembered that this was House that he was dealing with, and suddenly he felt like crying. Nothing on earth was more important to House than his dignity and pride – having those taken away from him all those years ago by the people he'd loved had ensured that such things became vital. He blamed that time for all the pain he felt now, in his leg and everywhere else in his life.

He hadn't even been sure if House would take the rehab deal – like, maybe that was still beyond him too, like admitting a defeat. He supposed Cuddy or Cameron had convinced House to at least do that much.

He guessed – and it hurt – that forgiving him would be something House mightn't allow himself to do because it would be some sort of justification of Tritter in this abstract, twisted sense. Another sort of defeat – like admitting he'd been wrong in some way.

_More than anything, you've always wanted to be right, haven't you?_

He opened the door, and looked at House, and House looked at him.

House was the first one to break the gaze, dropping his clouded blue eyes and brushing past Wilson into his hotel room. Wilson watched as House looked around the room, his eyes scrutinising the bathroom, the kitchen bench, the floor, the ceiling – taking in everything, a look of concentration on his face.

Wilson's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"What are you doing?" he asked finally, pushing the door closed behind him and keeping his eyes on the very strangely behaving House.

Well, more strange than usual.

House paused, staring at the bed with a mixed expression.

"I'm memorising," he said, with a vague gesture around the room.

_Memorising?_

House shuffled over to the seat – the same seat of course, _always_ the same seat – and sat down, looking a weird mix of completely at ease and extremely uncomfortable at the same time. Something only House could pull off well, no doubt.

Wilson silently walked over, and took a seat on his bed, facing House and waiting for some sort of explanation or condemnation. Whichever came first. He felt his ears burn under House's critical gaze, and couldn't find it in himself to look House in the eye.

This could be it, couldn't it? House would go into rehab, and it would be the end of some final stage in their friendship, and when House came out everything would be different, wiped away, faded, broken.

_I have to say something – I'll regret it if I don't._

For so many years, they'd been moving through the same old motions, the hospital and its patients and its staff moving around them like a washed-out backdrop offering the stage but not the way forward. Wilson had always wondered if House felt for him anything other than friendship, saw it hinted at in the little things that House said and did, the reluctant ways in which he showed they were _something_, that they had something together. But it had been unspoken all this time, maybe because both of them feared that admission would change things only for the worst.

"I'm sorry."

Wilson looked up in shock, his mouth opening in response but his mind unable to find words.

_Was that… an apology?_

House looked more uncomfortable than not now, shifting uneasily in the chair and both hands fiddling with his cane. His eyes, though – his eyes were watching Wilson carefully, intelligently, not showing any of the doubt that the rest of his body language gave away.

"I…" Wilson began, but trailed off. "I don't know what to say."

House breathed out slowly, as if some great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He looked down at his cane, a wave of pain and regret and sorrow and loneliness passing over his lined face like a shadow.

_I wish I could fix it all for you._

But when he looked up at Wilson, his expression changed. There was still pain, but it was dimmer and mixed in with some tentative sparks of hope, and fear, and affection, and a genuine look of apology.

Wilson wanted to say something, he did. But he couldn't find the right words – words were failing him again and for the first time he wondered if maybe that was because they were inadequate sometimes, in some situations.

Like now.

_I hope you can somehow hear everything I want to say to you. _

They sat there, looking at each other, House in the chair and Wilson on the bed, neither making a move or saying anything. Just being there, in the moment, silent, perhaps unable to find things to say or maybe because there was nothing _to_ say.

Finally, House half-smiled, a look in his eyes that softened his expression and made him look younger and more unguarded than Wilson had seen him for a _long_ time.

He got to his feet, standing in front of Wilson, looking down at him sitting on the bed, and for all his fears it was nothing at all like his nightmare.

House held out his hand, the other gripping his cane and keeping him steady. Wilson's heart felt like it was going to burst with relief and happiness and joy, but he managed to keep it in tact as he looked from House's familiar but _different_ face to the proffered hand.

He took it.

_

* * *

It was the right thing to do. _

_They don't know, but I'm looking at them right now and I can see that the path I chose was the only reasonable one. I can see the connection between House and Wilson so clearly now as if it were hanging tangibly in the air between them. They are each other's counterpart, some sort of yin and yang, a contemporary Holmes and Watson, complementing each other in this abstract, seamless way. _

_Sometimes, no matter how much we love someone, it isn't enough to change the way they feel about someone else. It can't always be mutual or the world wouldn't be the way it is – cold, lonely, falling apart small pieces at a time. There is hope for a lucky few in the world and it surrounds those two so brightly; it brings out a happiness in House that no one, not me, not anyone but Wilson, can come close to giving. I couldn't have done anything else._

_I had to let House go and it still hurts. Maybe it will always hurt. But I don't care. I'll take the hurt and keep it somewhere and learn from it and possibly one day I'll heal. Life is the summation of our experiences – good and bad alike – and House was a mix of many things for me. If he can make Wilson happy and if Wilson can do the same for House, then I can't do anything but accept it and try to move on._

_I can't help wondering now if everything that Tritter did was negative. He certainly intended to hurt House, to take something precious to him and break it into little pieces. He thought what we all did – that House would be too stubborn to let a friendship survive a war. _

_But Tritter underestimated the strength not of Wilson or House individually, but together. Wilson needs House just the same as how House depends on Wilson, and together they are all the stronger for it. If not for Tritter and the terrible things he did, House and Wilson may have continued dancing around each other forever, never daring to push the boundaries until it was too late to change anything._

_Despite the circumstances, there's a strange innocence and purity to what House and Wilson have. This will be their last day alone together until House gets out of rehab, and they aren't off in the depths of some dark room – they're here, in this park near the hospital, standing on a bridge, completely content with each other's presence. It's simple and it's enough._

_I still love House in a way that I'll never be able to let go of. But seeing him like this, not angry or bitter or resentful, is worth more than that, means more than a crush I _will_ get over._

_It's perfect, in a way. Them – together. Some sort of vague evidence that ideals can maybe, just maybe, prevail in the world – that the metaphorical glass isn't half empty or half full but whatever people want to believe about it, that you can believe in something and it might just be true._

_I don't believe in magic, not anymore. _

_But I can believe in this._

* * *

Looking out from an arched wooden bridge, Wilson's eyes were on the ripples of the water spreading across the lake. But House's eyes were elsewhere; leaning on the railing of the bridge, he watched his best friend thoughtfully, taking in everything, his dark brown hair, his pensive eyes, the way he always looked as if he cared about everything that happened to the entire world. 

_I couldn't have let him go just like that._

Wilson finally looked back from the water, having been aware for a while that he was being studied by House, and his intelligent eyes met House's light blue ones. Wilson smiled a little, hesitant and awkward and shy but familiar and warm.

House felt his face crease in a smile back, and he knew his eyes said what his words couldn't.

_\ It's you I can't deny. \_

_

* * *

I didn't expect this to happen. _

_I thought I had read Doctor Gregory House perfectly, that his stubborn pride would determine the outcome of the situation and he'd cast Wilson off in the same way he exploited and discarded everyone around him for too long already. But I seem to have misjudged him, and I admit his actions surprise me, if they are indeed genuine. _

_I don't hate him, I never did - not really. I wanted him to suffer, yes, but only because of the way he made other people around him suffer. There are many people like House in the world, causing innocent people - the undeserving collateral damage - pain and anguish, and when I became a detective I swore I would make the world a better place: without such people, couldn't it be? Shouldn't they pay for the things they do wrong, the people they hurt? Some dissident part of me regrets what I did to Wilson in my vengeance against House; he is foolish for having stuck by House for so long, but perhaps he did not deserve the cruelty I inflicted on him._

_In any case, I am satisfied to leave things as they are, because it appears that something has changed about House. Actions have consequences, and perhaps he has come to realise that he has the power to determine what those consequences are – the power to encourage or crush the people he encounters on a daily basis, to be an asshole or someone better. Maybe it has truly, sincerely changed him. _

_I'll watch him for a while, of course, from afar but not too far away, and I'll ascertain just how much really has changed. It is true that one incident rarely changes the habits of a lifetime, as Wilson observed. So I'll be watching, waiting for House to slip up and revert to his old ways, to make the same mistakes again, and if he does then it will begin again and this time I _will_ destroy him._

_I hope I'm wrong about you, Doctor House. _

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**(Final) Endnote:** Finished! It feels so great to have finished a fic in completion, and to have actually stuck to my goal of keeping it fairly contained. It really doesn't happen often so this rocks. I started this with some vague idea that _maybe_ I'd complete it, and if it weren't for such great feedback I mightn't have! So – thank you x 100000 to everyone who has reviewed so far, there are such nice reviewers out there and you guys are the best.

Of course, I'd absolutely love to hear what everyone thought of this chapter and the fic as a whole, so please review if you feel so inclined!!! Thanks also to everyone who read it, even if you didn't review (it's not too late! ;)) – it's brilliant there are people reading this all the same!

So yeah – this is it for HoC, but maybe sometime in the not too distant future… :)

-_ Amalialia_ -


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